


Until You Come To Me

by Xairathan



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 03:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20717249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xairathan/pseuds/Xairathan
Summary: The longest that Okita has to wait to see Nobunaga: one or two years, give or take.The longest that Nobunaga has to wait to see Okita: eleven years.





	Until You Come To Me

**1551**

**(1868)**

The first time Kippoushi sees her, she’s lying belly-up on a futon, listless eyes hardly wavering from the ceiling to greet her companion. Kippoushi squints past the moonlight blinding her, squinting past the dredges of sleep into the grey of her room beyond, at the woman. Her straw-blonde hair fans out in ripples around her head, the most vibrant part of her, a hint of life shining past the paleness of her face and her kimono, blemished with the red of rust.

Kippoushi sits up, and the rest of the room brings itself into clarity. This isn’t her room, nor her house: rather than a sliding door, there’s a window looking out onto a garden, unfiltered moonlight and wind-blown cherry blossoms trickling in and washing over the tatami in waves of faded silver.

“What’s going on?” Immediately, Kippoushi’s mind goes to the stories the village boys have told her- trickster spirits and youkai, dreams that claim the minds of the one they plague, then their lives.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the woman says with a smile.

_ Oh_, Kippoushi thinks, _ definitely a trickster dream, or else one of _ those _ dreams. _

“I’m Okita Souji. Someone who won’t live until long after you’ve died.”

Alright, this isn’t normally how her dreams go. Kippoushi glances at the window (normal tile roofs, a standard wall between houses), at the room (a katana resting on a stand, blade up, dust layered thick on the lacquer), at the kimono itself (oddly coarse).

“Is that so?” Kippoushi laughs. “Well, if that’s the case, then tell me something about the future!”

“I can’t. I can’t tell you anything that might affect-” Okita coughs, flecking the sheets in fresh crimson. Her hand rustles in the sheets, massages her chest. “Water,” she gasps, head rolling to the side.

Kippoushi follows her gaze to the collection of bottles lined up against the wall, glassy exteriors throwing up shimmering spirits of green and blue upon the walls. She grabs the nearest one and retreats to Okita’s side, holding it to her lips.

The kimono and bedsheets hide most of Okita’s form, but they don’t hide the gauntness of Okita’s cheeks, the dull resignation in her eyes as she drinks, wincing as she settles back against her pillow.

“What’s wrong?” Kippoushi asks. She sets the bottle aside and kneels beside the futon, hands settled on her thighs. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” The hair by Okita’s mouth flutters briefly as she sighs. “I’m sick. Tuberculosis.”

“I don’t-” Kippoushi begins, and goes still, the heat of her body rapidly draining, stomach lurching as if her realization has pulled the ground out from under her.

She knows of no sickness like this, has never heard of it or its name.

This is no ordinary dream.

“What will happen to you?”

Okita laughs, and Kippoushi’s cheeks sting with pink. Yes, it was a stupid thing to ask of someone she’d only just met, but did Okita have to make it so obvious? But Okita quickly quells her laughter, and an unknown affection kindles to life in her eyes as she says, “Of course you’d ask that, Nobu.”

“I’m not- whoever that is.” In the future, she might be; that’s the first part of the name given to all the men (and possibly one woman) of the Oda family. “I’m still Kippoushi.”

She doesn’t know why she adds ‘still’ there, but Okita seems to understand. “I’m early,” she says, more for herself than for Kippoushi. “If they can’t treat me, I’ll die. That’s what happens to everyone who’s sick like me.”

“Isn’t there something that can be done?”

“An operation.” Okita’s breath stutters again; Kippoushi goes for the bottle, but Okita waves her hand down. “Tomorrow. It’s still being researched, but it’s my only chance.”

“I’ll change that.” The words leave Kippoushi as naturally as a river chasing the slope of a hill. Okita stirs under the sudden energy of Kippoushi’s voice, the intense shine of her eyes. “I’ll succeed my father and make a better Japan, where someone as beautiful as you doesn’t have to waste away like this.”

A tinge of life returns to Okita’s cheeks. Her laugh is the rustle of the wind against the shoji paper lining Kippoushi’s bedroom doors, and she says, “You really are the Fool of Owari, Nobu.”

“Hey!”

“I mean, saying something like that to a person you’ve just met.”

“But you’re not just that! You call me by a name I shouldn’t know, and far too familiarly. So you aren’t just from the future, you know me well, too!”

“Nothing gets past you…” Okita’s smile settles into a blissful curve, and her head tilts in Kippoushi’s direction. That peaceful look lasts for but a heartbeat- the moonlight blurs it and the room around them, and Kippoushi feels something in her twisting, being pulled in a direction she can only describe as _ away from Okita_. “You’re right. We’ll meet again, in a place like this. We’re tied together by fate like that.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know. If I survive tomorrow, we might meet again. But if you never dream of me past this point, then you’ll know I didn’t make it.”

“You will!” Kippoushi shouts this to the ghostly outline of the fading room. “You’ll live, and we’ll see each other again! I’ll make our reunion a reality, Okita!”

She thinks she might’ve heard Okita laugh again, or it might simply be the winter winds whipping through the inner courtyard, calling to Kippoushi as she sits up in her futon. Her body trembles from the cold that touches her exposed shoulders. She endures it anyway, has to know what the unfamiliar touch in her hand is. As she brings her hand out into the open, a single cherry blossom petal flits off her palm and darts towards the floor.

A huff of breath that clouds in the air, an adjustment of heavy blankets. Kippoushi curls up and tries to find sleep once again, but she can’t, not right away. Okita weighs heavy on her mind, from the untouched dust on her weapon to the dried blood on her lips that she hadn’t even the strength to wipe away.

When they meet again, Kippoushi tells herself, Okita will be better.

Nobunaga, then Kippoushi, doesn’t see Okita again for eight years.

* * *

**1557**

**(1865)**

Nobukatsu’s blood has long since been washed from her clothes and her blade, but Nobunaga dreams of it: the heat, the weight, the stench.

She did what she had to do, she tells herself. She was eliminating a threat to her authority, she tells her followers. She shouldn’t have shown him mercy the first time, she tells her mother.

The truth is, Nobukatsu is dead as much because Nobunaga wanted to keep power as because of a faintly-remembered dream, the clearest image of which is a pink-clad woman (Okita, Nobunaga reminds herself) lying on her sickbed.

Now, she asks herself if it was worth it. Nobukatsu had to go- his presence destabilized everything Nobunaga had worked for, dreams or no. Owari needed a strong guiding hand, and that would not have been Nobukatsu. She at least agrees with her retainers on that matter, but she knows what they say behind her back: that they don’t need these European firearms that Nobunaga is so fond of, and they especially don’t need the most costly item Nobunaga has purchased by far, a thick bound book of Western medicine, which even now Nobunaga has devoted some of her best minds to translating.

A sudden change in brightness and the stilling of the wind call Nobunaga’s thoughts away from the past. The pale light coming through the screens into her room is stronger now, as if someone’s just stepped away. The silhouette hunched just outside the door says otherwise, as does the saw of uneven breathing, the telltale sound of doubt manifesting as tears.

Nobunaga pulls her door back, and Okita is there. She sits on the walkway under the light of a full moon, once crescent and shrouded in clouds. Darkness dampens the sleeves of her kimono, and she whirls on Nobunaga with red-rimmed eyes, puffy and blurred but filled with a fire that Nobunaga knows well. “No,” she snaps. “Go away.”

“I’m glad to see you too,” Nobunaga laughs, walking over and plopping herself beside Okita. “You’re in my dream this time, so how about _ you _go somewhere else?”

“Maybe I will!” Okita starts to stand, flinches and glares at Nobunaga’s fingers, wound suddenly and tightly around her wrist. “What now?”

“I was only joking.” Nobunaga stares at her with all the petulance of a child, still as much the Fool of Owari at heart as the head of the Oda clan. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Like I’d ever tell you.” Okita turns away, rubbing furiously at her eyes.

“You’re only making it worse,” Nobunaga tells her.

“Did I ask?”

“You know, you can’t take on everything on your own for long, Okita.” That gets a reaction from her: a jerk of the head, a setting of her jaw.

“What makes you think I don’t have people in my time that I talk to?”

Nobunaga throws her head back, teeth flashing in the moonlight, and lets out a hearty laugh. “If you look forward to a ghost from the past visiting you in your sleep to talk to you, I think that’d make you pretty lonely.”

“I haven’t- I don’t _ look forward _ to this!”

“Yet.”

“And I won’t! Why would I look forward to meeting someone who’d be an enemy in my time?” Okita yanks her hand back from Nobunaga, ruffling the folds of her kimono. The stains on its front, kept hidden by the drape of her sleeves, gleam before Nobunaga’s eyes.

“Ah.” Nobunaga settles herself against the wooden planks, lets her feet swing out into empty air. “You killed a man.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

“Do you?” Okita shoots another furtive, sidelong glance at Nobunaga. A lingering hurt flickers in the shadow that passes behind her eyes, and Nobunaga understands. “Someone close to you,” she says.

“Keisuke. He was like a brother to me.” Okita glares up at the moon, her eyes watering. “He left our group. The rules we agreed to when we joined say if you do, then the punishment-” Okita breaks off, looks at Nobunaga; her hands tremble as she says, “The punishment is seppuku.”

“You were his second.” Okita nods, tight and short. “If he knew the rules, why’d he do it?”

“Because he lost faith in what we were fighting for.” Okita’s hands clench and tangle in her obi. “And because I couldn’t stop him.”

“Could you have?”

“He came and talked to me before he left. He was asking things about if what we were doing was right, if it was really what was best for Japan, things like that. I tried to tell him that we were, but he wouldn’t listen, and then one morning I woke up and he was gone.”

“So you hunted him down.”

“I brought him back to our Commander.”

“And then…” Nobunaga’s hand waves aimlessly through the air. Okita nods again, a shallow dip of her head accompanied by a rising of her throat.

“I couldn’t even stop him from going,” she mutters, her voice thick and bitter. “How am I supposed to help save Japan if I couldn’t even save him from-” Okita mouths wordlessly, clutches at the collar of her kimono. The blood leaves her mouth in a trickle at first, and then in heaving coughs that wrack her body, shattering the delicate silence. Okita doubles over, both hands pressed over her mouth and nose, tears running freely from her eyes and trickling down her knuckles.

“Hey- here.” Nobunaga moves closer, extends a hand wound up in the sleeve of her coat. She brushes Okita’s aside, runs the back of her thumb over Okita’s lips, wiping them clean.

“Stop that,” mumbles Okita, swatting uselessly at Nobunaga’s hand. “You’ll ruin your clothes.”

“Too late for that.” The gentle smile on Nobunaga’s face doesn’t match the swell of emotion in her voice as she says, “I already ruined them last week.” Okita blinks at her, and Nobunaga elaborates- “I had to kill my brother, too.”

Okita’s face twists strangely, and it’s then that Nobunaga realizes that the only thing she hates more than doubting herself is being pitied. Okita’s eyes betray her distaste, but her tone is genuine when she asks, “What happened?”

“Oh?” Nobunaga’s carefree grin slides back onto her face, as easily as putting on mask. “Showing sympathy for the enemy now?”

“I’m just returning the same courtesy you gave me,” Okita blusters. “So?”

“You probably know about it, if you’re from the future. Nobukatsu tried to lead a coup against me twice, and this was the second time. I didn’t want there to be a third.”

“Do you regret it?”

“It was for the sake of Owari,” Nobunaga replies, and it’s the closest to the truth that she’s admitted to anyone besides herself. She can’t tell Okita everything, not when she’s still barely willing to acknowledge it herself, but at least the burden of her guilt no longer settles solely on her shoulders. “And for the future.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do.” Nobunaga’s eyes meet Okita’s, and something in them gives: Okita can’t say the same for herself, for her convictions, and hearing Nobunaga declare her sureness so boldly strikes her with equal parts confusion and envy.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’m the only one who can talk to you.”

“What- how is that even relevant?”

“Maybe in the future, it’ll make sense to you.”

“Even if that didn’t sound like you making things up, why would it even matter? I’m the enemy-”

“Are you?”

“You just said I was!”

“I said that because you said it first.” Now Nobunaga’s odd little smile has returned, and she stares at Okita with a look that Okita knows far too well. She’s seen it on her own face, reflected in the shine of her sword and running blood and water, the calculated guise of someone accustomed to being alone. Of course- she’d never considered it, but Nobunaga is a prodigy of war in the same way Okita is a master of the sword, and Okita would know well the distance such status creates.

“Then what would you rather us be?” asks Okita.

“I don’t know.” Nobunaga’s smile widens slightly. “Friends, maybe.”

“There’s no way I’d ever consider someone like you a friend.”

“Why not?” Nobunaga leans forward, chasing after Okita’s turned shoulders. “We both want the same thing, don’t we?”

“I don’t want power like you-”

“But you want what’s best for Japan. That much is obvious.”

“And you do?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a lofty goal for now.” Nobunaga shrugs, casting her gaze skyward. “I want what’s best for Owari. Maybe in the future, I’ll set my sights on Japan.” From the corner of her eye, she sees Okita bite her lip, and makes a mental note of that. “We don’t have to agree on what we think is best. We’re from different times, after all. History can decide who was right in the end, how’s that?”

“I already know how your story ends,” Okita can’t help but say.

“But we don’t know about yours, so don’t count yourself out yet.”

“Getting encouragement from you, of all people?” Okita scoffs and pulls the edges of her kimono tighter around her. “I’ve really hit a new low.”

“Is that really so bad?”

Okita draws her eyes away from the courtyard, gazes up at the moon with Nobunaga. No, it isn’t, she thinks begrudgingly. Nobunaga’s words have given her a reprieve from her worries; they’ll no doubt return with the morning, but for now, she’s free of them. Maybe Nobunaga isn’t all that bad after all, she catches herself thinking, and stops herself there- that would be a dangerous thought to continue.

Nobunaga seems oblivious to the silent conflict raging on beside her, content to watch the moon flicker and dwindle, its fullness slowly waning away into the curved quarter-shape Nobunaga knows it should be.

In the past, it had been Nobukatsu who would sit here and stare at the sky with her, idle chatter mingling with comfortable pauses, days when the strain of commanding her clan hadn’t isolated Nobunaga from everyone else. Tonight, it’s Okita who keeps her company as much as she is here for Okita, her presence staving off the unwanted roving thoughts that haunt a lonely mind.

The lightest of pressures settles against Nobunaga’s side- that would be Okita, half asleep, eyes shut and blind to the fragmenting of their world around them, the silver threads of their dream unraveling as she sleeps. Nobunaga doesn’t know what Okita thinks of as she drifts off, hardly pays it any mind. All she cares about is the smile settled on Okita’s face, the closest to a peaceful rest that Nobunaga has seen from her. She lets Okita lean against her until the dream falls apart at its seams, replaying conversations spoken into this courtyard while Okita dozes to memories of Kondo and the others, their laughter filling the Kyoto night, herself and Yamanami howling with it at the moon like wolves.

* * *

**1560**

**(1868)**

The heady sensation of overwhelming victory mixes with the sweet sake that Nobunaga’s all but drowned herself in, making the forest swim before her eyes. She’d wandered out to get some fresh air away from the smoke and revelry of her men, and now she’s lost the way back. It’ll be alright, though- this land is hers; she walked it in her youth, and if she can’t find the way home, it’ll guide her feet in its direction.

That is, until Nobunaga stumbles over unfamiliar earth, her arms flailing, and she topples over onto the dust-

It had rained earlier in the day.

Gone is the smell of freshly dampened earth, along with the pounding in her temples. Now, she smells smoke heavy in the air, and iron.

Nobunaga lifts her head. No longer is she staring at the familiar forests of her home province, but at a vast and open plain flanked on both sides by lush greenery. The quiet of the night she’s left behind crumbles to pieces with the sound of rippling gunfire and shouting, guttural screams torn from the throats of men with nothing to lose but their lives. To her right, ranks of men in conical hats raise their rifles to their shoulders and let loose, then kneel to let the others behind them continue the volley. To her left, a banner with a single kanji rallies a straggling group of samurai, all of them clad in a blue haori with a jagged white pattern on their sleeves.

This is no longer Nobunaga’s time, but Okita’s, but where is Okita?

Nobunaga runs forward, grasping for the sword at her hip. She draws it, holds it ready, head darting from side to side. But the gazes of the men around her pass blankly over where Nobunaga stands; the rank of riflemen charges, and they move straight through her body as if she were a ghost. Nobunaga turns her body to watch their advance, and it’s then that she sees the hint of sky blue covered by mud and shrouded in rifle smoke, the wisp of pale blonde hair sticking up like a banner of its own.

Nobunaga sheathes her sword and runs, heels pounding already packed dirt, stamped down by the passage of thousands of soldiers. She skids to a stop on her knees, ignoring the mud that splashes onto her coat, pulls Okita up out of it and rests her shoulders against her thighs.

“Okita?” Nobunaga takes her all in: the blood coating her sword, which Okita still clings to with one hand with such force that her already bloodless skin looks white like snow; the mud caked thick on her face; the trembling of Okita’s chest as she struggles for breath. Nobunaga cleans her off with frantic passes of her glove, freezes when Okita lifts a hand to her chest, grabbing blindly, taking a fistful of her coat and letting her arm hang loosely from it.

“Nobu?” Okita’s eyes flutter open, staring past Nobunaga into the blue of the cloudless sky. “You’re really here?”

“Yeah-” Nobunaga fumbles with Okita’s sword hand, trying to get her to relinquish her grasp on it. Okita doesn’t even register this, simply clings to what she can hold of Nobunaga and musters what might pass in this age as a brave smile.

“I’m glad I got to see you again.” Nobunaga gets one finger loose from the hilt, and the rest of Okita’s grip unravels, her sword making an indent where it lands in the mud. Nobunaga grabs for it, shakes it clean as best as she can before putting it back in its scabbard at Okita’s side. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.”

“What’re you saying?” Nobunaga slides her hands under Okita’s arms, struggling to lift her.

Okita shakes her head, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth, and Nobunaga understands. As she pulls Okita up out of the mud, Okita’s lips move; the words crash against Nobunaga’s ears, more deafening than any volley of gunshots, the words that the Okita she’d first met must have so badly wanted to say.

“Don’t talk like that,” Nobunaga tells Okita, slowly dragging her to cover. The samurai with the blue haoris aren’t that far from here. Nobunaga would only need to get Okita to somewhere she could be seen, and they’ll take care of her. “You won’t die here.”

“How…”

“Because the me of the past will meet the you of the future.” Nobunaga finds a sizeable rock and ducks behind it, setting Okita upright.

“What- no, when are you from?”

“It’s the third year of Eiroku,” Nobunaga says. Okita looks back at her blankly, and Nobunaga shakes her head. “Okehazama?” she tries again, and Okita laughs so sharply and suddenly that for a moment Nobunaga’s afraid she’s about to start coughing blood again. “Okita?”

“No, it’s- it’s funny.” Okita swipes weakly at her mouth. “Fate brings the Demon King at the start of everything to meet the genius swordsman of the Shinsengumi at her weakest.”

“Don’t say that-”

“Why not?” Okita asks her. “Why shouldn’t I? We’re bound by fate, aren’t we? Why would I be able to do anything when even you couldn’t achieve what you wanted for Japan?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nobunaga mutters. Okita shakes her head, swallowing painfully.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, grimacing and rubbing her throat. “I said too much.”

“Okita, look.” Nobunaga gets down on her knees by her side, staring into her eyes. “Even if you think this is the end and you can’t keep fighting, I can in my time, and I will! I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I won’t abandon my vision so easily. If you really are connected to me, then you shouldn't either!”

“It’s too late for me.” Okita tilts her head back until it just rests against the rock. “I can’t fight anymore.”

“You can.” Nobunaga runs the backs of her fingers over Okita’s cheek, pushing stray hairs behind her ear. “Fight what’s about to come, so we can meet at least one more time.” The ground lurches beneath her- Nobunaga looks up, expecting cannonfire, but it’s just her; Okita hasn’t moved, and the greying sky tells Nobunaga she’s being pulled away again.

On impulse, Nobunaga leans forward. The kiss is hasty and rushed and tastes of equal parts iron and dirt, but she doesn’t care. Her lips brush over Okita’s; she feels the warm gasp of Okita’s breath and the slightest hint of pressure before Nobunaga moves back, staring into her brilliant, flaxen-gold eyes.

“I might not remember you the next time you see me,” she tells Okita. “But if I don’t, I’ll still love you too. Just know that, okay?”

“How?”

“Because!” Nobunaga shouts over the roar of the wind rushing past her, trees and open fields blurring into one, the moon and the sun joining in a blinding burst of light that Nobunaga still stares at Okita through, unwilling to let herself look away. “That’s written in my vision, too!”

She doesn’t know if Okita hears her- another twist, and the battlefield is ripped away; Nobunaga lands with her face in the dirt, cool grass between her fingers, and the pounding in her head is the only answer to her groan of dismay. In the distance, just below the slope of the hill, she sees glittering amber lights- her men, her encampment. Nobunaga picks herself up and starts towards them, gloved hands fumbling along the trunks of trees along the way, smearing them with what could be fresh mud or drying crimson.

(In another life, Okita too wakes up from a dream, shielded from enemy fire by a sturdy boulder. Hijikata crouches over her, saying he doesn’t know how she got there, and what he tells her next cuts deeper than any weapon could, even though Okita had long since known its truth. The next day, she’s headed back home to Edo.)

* * *

**1571**

**(1866)**

The ashes of Enryaku-ji hang in the air, thicker than cherry blossoms torn loose by a summer storm. Nobunaga stands as close to the entrance of the monastery as she dares, coat warding off the flames that tear off from consuming the wooden structure, lashing out at whatever’s within reach.

Around her, the roar of the fire mingles with the shouts and cries of those still trapped inside the complex, a terrible symphony of destruction that catches like smoke on the spiraling updrafts, joining dark clouds in blackening the heavens. They disturb the men, but not Nobunaga herself- she stares evenly at what she’s wrought, what she’s deemed _ necessary _ for her vision of the future to come to be.

Nobunaga’s not surprised when the ashes swirling around her freeze in their places and the night goes quiet- she’d been waiting for this, almost expected it from the moment she started up the mountain. She lifts a hand and swings it through the air in front of her, grey flakes crumbling and smearing against the dirtied white of her glove. From behind her, the sound of footsteps, too light to be anyone wearing the standard armor Nobunaga mandates her soldiers to wear.

“I thought I’d end up here someday,” Okita says, stopping well away from where Nobunaga stands. “I truly wouldn’t be connected to the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven if I didn’t get to see something burning, right?”

“The what?” Nobunaga laughs. “Is that really what I’m called in the future?”

“You said it first.”

“Did I?” Nobunaga turns around, lightly tugging at the collar of her coat. “Haven’t you ever heard of being facetious, Okita?”

“Well, you were known as the Fool of Owari for a reason,” Okita mutters. “Of course you’d leave that as your legacy.”

“Being a Demon King and burning things?” Nobunaga says, a spark of amusement dancing over her features. “Well, of course I would be remembered for things like this.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It can’t be helped!” Nobunaga flings her arms up in a mock shrug, laughing at the situation she’s found herself in, at the disbelief on Okita’s face, at herself. Nobunaga has long made her peace with being made the enemy of the shogunate. Either she will unite Japan under herself, or it will unite itself against her; as long as it stands in one piece when the fires stop burning, it’ll make little difference to Nobunaga.

Of course, she’d like to be alive to see what happens, if only to know what becomes of her second, secret endeavor. A decade of medical research is nothing compared to the vast histories detailed in the book Nobunaga traded for so long ago. Now she understands how little she knows, how far she has left to go if the future she promised Okita is to be within her grasp. Individual cases and field hospitals can only advance her work so far, and so she’s left to pursue the only remaining option left, in the hopes that a Japan not at war with itself could succeed where Nobunaga’s resources alone cannot.

Nobunaga shakes her head slightly, chases those thoughts away. Why linger on such things when Okita is here? “So,” she says, bringing her grin to bear on Okita. “What brings you here to me this time?”

“Nothing’s ‘brought’ me anywhere,” Okita protests. “What makes you think that?”

“You had _ something _ on your mind the last time you visited me,” Nobunaga says. “Unless you just really wanted to see me again that badly.”

“You wish I did.” Okita scowls at Nobunaga, gazing past her to stare at frozen tongues of flame climbing into the air, standing motionless for so long that Nobunaga wonders if Okita’s somehow slipped through the limits of their dream and fallen into her reality.

“Here.” Nobunaga’s hand touches Okita’s lower arm, points her away from the flying embers and crumbling rafters. Okita doesn’t resist beyond a quick jerking of her arm out of Nobunaga’s grasp, letting Nobunaga guide her down the mountain slope until the burning monastery is but a timid glow peeking through the branches.

“Our Commander told us to kill a man today.” Okita finds a fallen tree and hoists herself atop it, staring down at Nobunaga from her perch. “Sakamoto Ryoma.”

“He’s not another friend of yours, right?”

Okita snorts and shakes her head, the coughing that follows almost passing for laughter. “No way. He’s a traitor to this country.”

“Why does that bother you?”

“Do I do it?” A ray of moonlight catches Okita’s face, her eyes awash with a desire to kill that even the men of Nobunaga’s time would have difficulty matching. “The future me, does she tell you she kills him?”

“I couldn’t say even if I knew,” Nobunaga tells her. “Something about changing the future.”

“But I am your future!” Okita’s sandals carve chunks off the rotted bark of the tree. “And when did you start listening to the rules, anyway?”

“It’s your rule to begin with!”

“No it’s not, I- just tell me if you know or not!”

“I don’t. Happy?”

Okita’s shoulders slump, her gaze dropping to the dirt. “I don’t know what I expected,” she mutters, her voice tired and bitter. “I probably failed, then.”

“What makes you think that?” Nobunaga clambers up the far end of the tree, boots flailing through the air as she scrambles to find a foothold. She crawls along the length of the trunk until Okita’s close enough to touch, and from here she sees the tension in Okita’s jaw as she fights to keep her teeth from chattering.

“I can’t travel far.” Okita hunches over, crossing her arms over her chest and clutching at the sleeves of her haori. “The doctors who looked at me say I’ll barely be able to fight soon. And how are we supposed to kill a man who’s always moving when we don’t even know where he is-” Okita shakes her head, a harsh cough forcing its way past her gritted teeth.

“If you can’t fight any longer, maybe you should do what we do in this time and become a monk, ha!” Nobunaga laughs, earns a withering glare from Okita. “Okay, no, I shouldn’t say that-”

“No,” Okita sighs, another cough rumbling through her throat. “You might be on to something there.”

“You’d better not be considering it.” Nobunaga reaches over, pulling her coat off and draping it over Okita’s shoulders. Her hands linger for longer than they should, resting just an inch away from Okita’s.

“You’re right,” Okita mutters. She reaches up, brushes Nobunaga off, their hands touching for but a moment. This close, Okita smells the smoke that clings to Nobunaga as much as the cape wrapped around her body does, and yet the warmth that radiates off her tempts Okita to lean in closer. She doesn’t realize that she does, only registering it when her arm bumps into Nobunaga’s shoulder, pinning the coat to her side. Nobunaga glances at her, any trace of mockery gone, and smiles.

“If you’re going to go out fighting, what is it you hope to accomplish?”

“I…” Okita’s voice tapers off, no force behind it. Something flares behind Nobunaga’s eyes, and she draws herself up as best she can, puffing out her chest and leaning forward so Okita has no choice but to look her in the eyes.

“Don’t hesitate like that!” Nobunaga says, slapping the log. “That’s unbecoming of someone like you!”

“And how would you know?” Okita snaps back. “You guess one thing about me right and suddenly you know everything else, too?”

“I know enough about you to tell that such wavering isn’t like you at all! Every time I’ve met you, you’ve had something or another that you wanted to do, that you were fighting for! Whether it was right or wrong, that didn’t matter to you- so where is that now?!”

“It’s gone! And maybe I never had it all along, maybe I was just pretending, okay?” Okita doesn’t even sound angry, Nobunaga notes, just exhausted. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and lets her head hang. “Keisuke was right about everything, but what else can I do? Kondo and Hijikata are all I have left. And you know what happens to anyone who tries to leave.”

“What about me?” Nobunaga asks. Even leaving her the words sound weak, but Okita stirs and tilts her head, glancing at her.

“I’m lucky if I dream about you once a year,” laughs Okita.

“And I’ve waited eleven years to see you again.”

Nobunaga says it with no malice, not even resignation- just the patience of someone accustomed to a life of war and siege. Everything from her smile to the way she rests against Okita, with just enough pressure that they’re both upright, says she’s being genuine, and still Okita can’t believe her. “How?” she demands.

Without hesitation, Nobunaga says, “Because I love you.”

Okita freezes, those words ripping her breath away faster than any coughing fit could. Nobunaga elaborates, her smile fading, until Okita is staring down Nobunaga in her purest essence, a raging force with a will that drove her to conquer Japan. “You said it yourself- you’re my future. What I do now, what I fight for, will shape the world you live in. Whether we share the same vision for it, that doesn’t matter. I’ll create what I see fit, and you can change it, but don’t settle for anything less than what you know you’re capable of! I’ve seen how strong you can be, how far you’ll go when you put your mind to something, so don’t insult someone I love by wondering what you’ll amount to!”

“What am I supposed to do then?” Okita glares back, no less weary than before, but some of Nobunaga’s fire has caught, burning in the whiteness of her knuckles and the heat of her gaze. Here’s the other part of Okita that Nobunaga is enraptured by, that she’ll never be able to admit, if only because time and space have made it impossible to- that truly, Okita might be the only one able to match her in sheer determination, if only they could share a battlefield beyond the ones found in their dreams.

“I don’t know.” Nobunaga jerks her shoulders, and the Demon King is gone. There’s just a girl in a black uniform, wrapped up in a cape smudged with ashes, kicking her boots in the air far off the ground. “That’s for you to find out. The only advice I can give you is to find something you want to do and do it.”

Nobunaga anticipates the short, jerky nod that Okita gives her. What she doesn’t expect is for Okita to reach over and take a handful of her uniform shirt, pulling her until their mouths collide. The kiss is sloppy, all clutching hands and gasping breaths, Okita so hopelessly inexperienced that Nobunaga struggles not to laugh, tells herself that’s not what Okita needs from her right now. She tears off her gloves and throws them to the ground, winds her hands in Okita’s hair until they meet the ribbon tying it back, holds her steady as she takes Okita’s lips sweetly against her own. This is far from Nobunaga’s first kiss, but it is Okita’s, and so she lets Okita linger as long as she wants until Okita moves back, the pupils of her eyes reflecting the waxing moon in its wholeness.

Nobunaga is the one who breaks first, laughing in stuttering bursts that betray her surprise. “Is that all you could think of?” she asks, a rosy tint to her cheeks as if she’s just drunk an entire flask of hot sake.

“Don’t laugh!” Okita wails, shaking Nobunaga by her shirt. “You told me to do what I wanted, and I wanted to try that!”

That only serves to redouble Nobunaga’s laughter; she clutches at Okita’s wrist, pats the back of her hand gently. “Ah, don’t worry,” she says between gasps for air. “It’s just- that seems like something I would do, not you!”

“I didn’t just do that on impulse like you would!” Okita turns away, her own cheeks dusted with red. “I- I may have thought a bit about our dreams, that’s all!”

“And?” Nobunaga moves closer, a playful grin creeping across her face. “What could you possibly have thought up that _ this _was what you decided to do?”

“I don’t know, I-” And Okita cuts herself off, because that would be a lie. She knows what’s brought her to this point with Nobunaga, just never wanted to admit it to herself. She’d seen it as a betrayal, siding with the Demon King who’d opened her lands to foreign influences, but it had never been that. Okita had never hated her, but envied her, maybe even feared the confidence that shone from Nobunaga like light from a second sun.

And in a time of shifting allegiances and dwindling honor, maybe she had grown to love Nobunaga for it. Nobunaga, who no matter what had never been impatient with her, had never tried to misguide her. She’d said that Okita would understand someday, and now Okita does. Nobunaga is still the Demon King- Okita hasn’t forgotten that, nor does the dark cloud hanging overhead let her- but even the Demon Vice-Commander, Hijikata, has his soft side, and Okita has found Nobunaga’s.

“Ah, you don’t have to justify yourself to me.” Nobunaga ruffles the top of Okita’s head, plays with the sprig of hair that even now is still standing up. “I can tell you’re being serious.” The smile she gives Okita sends fresh heat spiraling from her gut up to her cheeks, and she turns away to a hearty chuckle from Nobunaga, who asks, “So, what do you intend to do now, Okita?”

“I’ll decide when I get back,” Okita answers without a pause. Her eyes go to the shrouded moon, sparse beams of silver poking through the smoke, still shimmering as it should. “Do you know how long we have, Nobu?”

“No idea,” Nobunaga tells her, her own voice faint as if she’s fallen into a dream within this dream. She feels the past and the future cross within her, shooting restless heat up through her chest at all of Okita’s unspoken emotions, wrapped up into the simple sound of her name. “I guess we’ll know when we know.”

“Then- what’s that thing you always say?”

“It can’t be helped?” Nobunaga says, still reeling. Okita has turned to face her; she’s so close, smearing flecks of soot from Nobunaga’s cheeks across her thumbs, perfect lips and the moon in her hair evoking the thought of cherry blossoms at night.

“Exactly.”

They kiss again, no scraping of teeth this time, just the sinuous meld of their bodies against one another, Nobunaga grasping for the edges of her coat to pull Okita in against her, Okita’s hands pressed to Nobunaga’s shoulders, her anchor, the surest thing in the world right now. They kiss until their breaths mingle iron and smoke, Nobunaga’s strengths and Okita’s weaknesses; Nobunaga pulls back and Okita goes after her, until they’re laying flat against the tree, chasing completion in the other, their passion igniting the dream around them in a heat haze that draws them back into their separate realities.

* * *

**1574**

**(1864)**

The islands are hers, after three years and countless men lost. Nobunaga stands on the beach of Nagashima with her eyes closed, feeling the push and pull of the sea wash her greaves of the dirt and ash she’s just finished walking through. She had to see for herself the smoking ruins of the fortresses she’d burned, as much to confirm the absoluteness of her victory as to remind herself of its cost- at least twenty thousand dead on the enemy side alone.

Nobunaga doesn’t feel when the dream begins, hardly notices when the shifting sand beneath her boots firms up into solid ground. It’s not until the cold metal tip of a katana levels itself against her throat that she realizes she’s no longer on the beach, but somewhere with trees that rustle in the wind and gravel crunching under her feet.

“Who are you?” The sword presses lightly against Nobunaga’s windpipe, and she opens her eyes. Okita stands in front of her, the white of her haori freshly stained with blood, blade held level despite the shakiness of her footing. She lowers it once she sees the red of Nobunaga’s eyes, sheathing her katana with a frown. “You again,” she mutters. “You look different. I thought you were dead, but that’s not how these stupid dreams work, is it?”

“Oh?” Nobunaga glances down at herself, blinking in confusion. The ground seems further than before, and her uniform has been replaced by a tight-fitting suit of black armor that clings to her body, augmented by patterns of striking gold. Her hand, now gloved in black as well, moves to push stray strands of hair- _ red? _\- away from her eyes, and for the first time she can remember, she stares down at Okita rather than up. “That’s quite the greeting, Okita. I’m guessing you’re not sick yet?”

Okita’s hand tightens over her katana, having never left it. “How much do you know?” she demands.

“Can’t tell you,” Nobunaga says absentmindedly. “I really must be early, if you’re acting like this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Okita walks a wary circle around her, an indistinct shadow against the backdrop of a moonless night. This might be Okita in her prime, Nobunaga muses, a feared swordsman yet untouched by the ravages of sickness- and then she sees the splattering of blood near the top of Okita’s haori, and that thought is quickly quelled.

“You seem even more on edge than usual.” Nobunaga plucks at the collar of her mantle, staring with amusement at the golden sunrays adorning her left shoulder. She can’t recall ever having dressed like this, but even so, she’d be a fool to deny that it’s a good look on herself. “Could it be because you’re in the presence of the Demon King of the Sixth Heaven?”

“Yes.” Okita’s nose wrinkles at the scent of fire and gunpowder lingering on Nobunaga’s clothes, strong enough that even upwind she can still smell it clearly. “Anyone who lets their guard down around you would be a fool.”

“Is that so?” Nobunaga laughs heartily, earning a defensive bristle from Okita. “And you’ve been fighting tonight, haven’t you? Tell me, who did you kill this time?”

“Threats to Japan,” Okita declares. “Like you. If it weren’t for the rules against altering time, I’d cut you down again, too.”

To this, Nobunaga inclines her head, surveying Okita with a smile that could only be described, much to Okita’s revulsion, as affectionate. “I missed seeing this side of you,” says Nobunaga. “Fired up about something. In a way, it reminds me of myself when I was younger.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Okita scowls, drumming her fingers against the hilt of her katana. “I hope not. There’s no way I’d ever be want to be compared to you, of all people.”

“No, I suppose not.” Nobunaga sighs, turning her gaze skyward. These days, she’s so used to fighting under smoke-darkened skies that the only difference between day and night for her is the suggestion of when to sleep. “After all, look at me- all these years of fighting, and only now do I realize I’ve been working against myself this whole time.”

Now it’s Okita’s turn to laugh, sharp and staccato, an audible struggle between her mirth and the newfound sensation of blood threatening to leave her lungs and lodge in her throat. “Oh, this will be good,” she says, the gold in her eyes burning as if to bore holes into Nobunaga’s very soul. She’s never seen them this vibrant, Nobunaga thinks, and the realization that she never might again is a wound worse than any she’s sustained in battle before. “Tell me, what _ does _the Demon King regret?”

“Not realizing such a simple thing sooner,” Nobunaga answers. “A time of conflict is no time for advancement in anything other than the art of war. If I’d only understood that sooner, perhaps things would be different. As it is, I’m afraid I’ve ruined both our chances.”

“What kind of vague answer is that?” Okita starts forward, moving until she’s toe to toe with Nobunaga, glaring up at her. Nobunaga just shrugs and shakes her head, unwilling to say anything more, unable to.

Instead, she says, “It’s already too late. I’ll just have to see things through to the end. Tell me, Okita- if someone from the future like you would look upon me so unkindly, then that must mean I failed, right?”

Okita doesn’t give Nobunaga a reply, just stares at her with the same expression as before. She doesn’t need to say anything- the answer is in the sharp jut of her jaw, the furrow of her brow as her eyes flit between Nobunaga’s face and her hands, watching for any sign of movement that might mean an attack. Nobunaga, in turn, watches Okita- the fluttering of her hair in the wind, the fullness of her cheeks, the picture of Okita at her peak that Nobunaga could only imagine before, brought into the world in front of her. If only, she thinks wistfully, this Okita would recognize her.

Okita shifts her weight around, unnerved by Nobunaga’s stare. “What?” she grumbles, as if daring Nobunaga to give her a reason to strike. Nobunaga can’t help it- she laughs, laughs more at the brief bewilderment that crosses Okita’s face. Okita reminds her so much of her earlier days, when she had learned every _ how _ of swinging her katana, but not yet the _ why _ behind it.

Nobunaga flashes her teeth at Okita, amused and knowing all at once. “Someday, in the future, you’ll understand.”

“Oh, great. I have to see more of you.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Nobunaga says, and her voice distorts as the world around her twists, the space between herself and Okita widening even as she feels herself being drawn back towards the ground. There’s a faint blur to the air; Okita might have said something, but it’s lost in the crashing of sound and color and waves tumbling over Nobunaga, buffeting her back towards the beach, the taste of salt water ripe in her lungs as she coughs it back out onto the damp sand.

Nobunaga opens her eyes, and the ghostly wisps of smoke rising from the ashes of Nagashima wave to her in greeting. This is the culmination of three years of planning and attacking and retreating to plan again, time that could’ve been spent elsewhere, on other endeavors. Nobunaga doesn’t let the sting of grief take root in her throat, forces it down and away. There’ll be time to deal with that later, if at all. If there’s time to feel regret, then there is still time to act. Nobunaga draws herself up to her feet, patting off her uniform- her gloves are white again, and she’s traded those sunrays back in for her hat- and starts back towards her front line. She’ll save her lingering regrets for when she dies, but not a moment sooner; certainly never again for when she dreams.

* * *

**1863**

**(1582)**

Okita wears her new haori even to bed- to break it in, she’ll say if someone asks her. In truth, her heart is still racing from Kondo’s impassioned speech, rousing words of honor and action and duty to the shogunate that call to the samurai blood in Okita’s veins. Even in an age of increasing chaos and dwindling reliance on the sword, there’s still work that can be done. First they’ll restore order to the streets of Kyoto, and from there spread across the rest of Japan.

Such pleasant thoughts don’t follow Okita into her sleep. Rather than dreams of wandering the streets of Kyoto, katana in hand, she opens her eyes to columns of black smoke rising where wooden pillars had once been. The heat of the fires consuming the building doesn’t perturb Okita, but she still throws up a hand to ward off the flames leaping down corridors, in search of new things to burn like dogs after a fox.

Okita wanders aimlessly through the smoky halls, watches the billowing grey as it curls against the high ceiling until the heat of it is too much and the rafters collapse, exposing the hungry fire to the rush of air from outside. The stars above shine through the holes in the ceiling, the same arrangement that had looked down upon Okita as she patrolled the streets, Yamanami and Serizawa behind her, barking with banter and laughter.

Another few turns, and Okita meets a dead end- the innermost room of the building, likewise aflame, only not abandoned like the rest. Okita’s mouth parts questioningly; she takes in the drawn sword clutched tightly in the other’s hands, the coat and battle uniform that Okita’s never seen before, but that brings faint memories of soldiers from the West to mind. Her eyes settle on the golden sunrays fanning out from the other’s cap, a familiar emblem at their center. Recognition hits Okita like a tangible blow, and she grabs instinctively for her sword, as if the act of drawing it will somehow let her assert control.

Even at her end, Oda Nobunaga is not one for inaction, for standing still and watching her work ignite and catch around her. Her eyes glimmer intently in the firelight as she looks up at Okita, pulling the point of her katana away from her stomach. “Oh?” she says, observing Okita the way one appraises a new discovery. “I didn’t expect you to come here.”

“I-” Okita holds her katana out in front of her, walks a wary circle around where the motionless Nobunaga kneels. When she dreams, her mind weaves her opponents for her blade- never her match, just challenging enough for Okita to smile as she cuts them down. Never does she dream of happenings in the past, things locked in time that can no longer be changed, as much a part of the Japan Okita fights for as dismissed out of lack of concern. Why Nobunaga is here, why Okita would suddenly dream of her, is beyond her.

“This is- this is Honnouji?” Okita says. “What am I doing here? How- why am I seeing your end? This is just some weird dream, right?”

Okita doesn’t expect Nobunaga to throw her head back, chest swelling full with laughter. “You’re here because we’re connected by fate.”

“You mean-” Okita thinks back to the books she’d read, the account of Honnouji. “I’m not taking you into my time, if that’s what’s supposed to happen!”

Nobunaga doubles over, gasping for air through her incessant laughter and the smoke choking her lungs. “No,” she chuckles, “I don’t go any further than this. But you’ll see me again, another ‘me’.” Nobunaga sits upright again, gazing at the edge of her katana, directed up at the ceiling. Between the roar of the temple coming down in the distance and the crackling fire, Okita nearly misses the low whisper of Nobunaga’s voice: “I’m sorry I failed you, Okita. I can only hope I’ve left you a future where you can carry a purpose through until the end.”

“What do you mean by that?” Okita steps forward, brandishing her sword. Nobunaga just stares at her, a strange sheen to her eyes that might be pity or remorse. What Okita doesn’t know is that Nobunaga, now at the end of her life, had never dreamed of an Okita who’d risen from her sickbed to take up her sword again. She’d failed, both in her promise to Okita and her efforts to unite Japan. The Nobunaga in front of Okita sits ready to atone for that, her blade sharpened and ready, simply waiting for Okita to be done with her.

“What kind of a dream is this?” Okita sounds more confused than anything, and Nobunaga can’t blame her. Okita wouldn’t be the type of person to believe a dream such as this, but she will- that, Nobunaga knows is certain. “And how do you even know my name?”

“I told you, we’ll meet again, always in dreams like this. They’ll come at random, and you’ll run into a different ‘me’ every time. That’s how I know you- we’ve met ever since I was young.”

“Right,” Okita says, her tone heavy with disbelief. “Well, if you really know me like that, then tell me something that happens in the future- tell me what’ll happen to the shogunate.”

Nobunaga shakes her head, gives her a noncommittal shrug. “I can’t. I’m not allowed to tell you anything about the future.”

“Well, that’s useless.” So this is still a dream, then, Okita thinks. A very strange one, probably brought on by something in the sake that Kondo had passed around. Nobunaga laughs again, softer than before, a lingering note of resignation hanging in the air between them. The look in her eyes has changed again- Okita steps back, leveling her sword at Nobunaga, knowing too well what the glint of camaraderie looks like, and wanting none of it from the Demon King.

“Were you always so quick to arms, Okita?” Nobunaga smiles at her, the corners of her eyes softening fondly. “Well, you were the genius swordsman of the Shinsengumi, after all.”

“Is that what they’ll call me?” Okita doesn’t move from where she stands, watching Nobunaga wrap the edge of her cape around her blade.

“I guess so. If they end up calling you that, then you’ll know I wasn’t lying about everything I’ve said, right? And if not-” Nobunaga’s eyes narrow slightly, and Okita’s shoulders tense, only for Nobunaga to say, “Well, the fact that you didn’t deny it immediately tells me you’re pretty good anyway. Would you be my second?”

There’s a return to form, if not an odd one. The Demon King of history is proud and unyielding, would have rather committed seppuku alone in burning Honnouji than let herself be killed by anyone else. This is a dream, then, and Okita swears she’ll think twice before accepting any more sake from Kondo.

Okita nods, stepping forward, until Nobunaga’s neck is well within reach of her blade. Nobunaga doesn’t rise to go on the attack as Okita expects, only smiles, her whispered thanks lost to Okita’s ears amidst the fire. Her grip tightens on her katana; she plunges it into her side, dragging it slowly towards her middle, and when the grunt of exertion is just about to leave her lips is when Okita lets her sword stroke fall.

She doesn’t see the Demon King die- a swirl of fire bears down on her from the ceiling, obscuring her vision; her sword falls from her grasp, and the fire breaks into a thousand petals floating down through the gap in the rafters.

Okita’s eyes fly open, and she’s lying in her futon, her skin dotted with sweat and fallen cherry blossoms alike, the lingering scent of smoke nearby either the last remnants of her dream, or Hijikata, sitting restless in the room next door with his pipe. Okita lifts her hand to her brow, wipes it clean of her sweat. The cherry blossoms crumble under her touch, clinging to the moisture gathering on her thumb, no longer pink, having been grey all along.

* * *

**( )**

After so many weeks spent in the human world, the plain white expanse Okita wakes to is nearly blinding. She rubs her eyes, smearing a faint outline of the only landmark in this place against the insides of her eyelids, an imposing seat in the distance rising into the sky like a tower.

She’s made it back, then. Okita sits up, head jerking from side to side, straining to make out what might be shifting shapes on the horizon, only for her eyes to adjust and prove them tricks of the light.

The Throne of Heroes is empty, as it always has been, and Okita feels her heart sinking, her knees growing weak beneath her.

For a fleeting moment, Okita had dared to hope in a way she hadn’t since the first days of the Shinsengumi. Now, she lets herself unravel, no longer needing to defend a Master or raise her sword. Her victory, her wish, has come and gone, and Okita threatens to crumble under the magnitude of her failure. Of course it would come to this- if Nobunaga hadn’t been able to do anything about it, how could she, even with Nobunaga’s encouragement, have hoped otherwise?

Something flickers at the edge of Okita’s vision- a blur, or perhaps just the tears that threaten to tug loose from the corners of her eyes. Something tugs at her gut, a sudden, sharp wrenching; Okita winces, instinctively bringing her hand up to her chest to ward off a pain that for once isn’t responsible. When she lifts her head again, something’s changed- there’s a black and red shadow moving between the shifting lights, swaying in place, as if just as confused and surprised by Okita.

Red eyes shimmer with recognition, and hot tears blaze shining trails down Okita’s cheeks. Nobunaga, as always, is the first to act, stumbling forward on uneven legs until she’s sprinting for where Okita kneels, thumbs rubbing beneath her eyes, standing on trembling legs to greet Nobunaga with open arms.

Their bodies collide with enough force to take Okita off her feet; no, that’s just Nobunaga sweeping her up, lifting her briefly with all the energy she can muster. “You made it!” she cries, and Okita can’t remember how long it’s been since she’s heard that familiar raspy voice. Her hands clutch at the back of Nobunaga’s coat, and she buries her face in Nobunaga’s hair, the scent of it sweet and smoky like Okita’s always dreamt it to be.

“I- I’ve been here!” Okita protests, not looking up to see what Nobunaga’s reaction is. This is her world now, Nobunaga in her hands and Nobunaga’s body against hers, one so very hard won. “We- I guess we just never got summoned together.”

“We never see each other here, either!” Nobunaga disentangles herself from Okita’s embrace, but not fully. Her arms loop around the back of Okita’s neck, and she takes all of Okita in slowly, like a breath of fresh air. “You look so happy,” Nobunaga whispers.

“Why do you think?”

Nobunaga laughs, giving Okita her usual toothy smile, and Okita can’t help but return it. After all this time, Nobunaga hasn’t changed a bit. “So how’d all this happen then?” asks Nobunaga, one hand waving around behind Okita’s head.

“I got summoned. I fought. I won.” Okita leans forward, lets her forehead rest against Nobunaga’s, giggles as the black-haired warlord goes uncharacteristically silent. “And then I wished to be reunited with you.”

“What?” There’s not nearly as much force to Nobunaga’s voice as there should be. It sounds like the wind’s been knocked out of her; she stares up at Okita, her mouth working wordlessly, until all that comes out is, “What kind of a wish is that?”

“I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted more, alright?”

“What kind of life did you have after I died that made you want to wish for _ that? _”

“Here.” Okita tugs at the corner of her kimono, baring the skin of her chest to Nobunaga, a long scar running the width of her ribcage just below her breasts. “This is what you left for me, Nobu. Thanks to that book you got, they were able to treat me.”

“It looks like they cut you open,” Nobunaga mutters flatly.

“And did something with my lungs,” Okita sighs. “But what matters is I lived. By then, Kondo was already gone, so I went after the rest of the Shinsengumi and Hijikata.”

“And?”

“We were defeated at Hakodate. Hijikata got shot in the back and died on the battlefield.”

“What about you?” Nobunaga’s eyes move back up to Okita’s, staring at her with the same fire that Okita remembers seeing once before on a forested mountainside, when Nobunaga had shouted into the night the words that Okita had carried with her, solemn as any vow, for the rest of her short life.

“The enemy surrounded the fortress we were using as a base. I didn’t want to die by any way other than a sword, so I came out and fought them.” Okita closes her eyes briefly, recalls the blood that had shone on her sword brighter than any muzzle flash and the heaviness of her limbs that had finally let a stray sword pierce her heart. A sentimental smile touches Okita’s lips, and the gentle puff of air that reaches her cheeks tells her of Nobunaga’s approval.

“So you got to die like you wanted to,” Nobunaga says.

“Is that what you meant when you said you’d make our reunion a reality?” Okita laughs. “Giving me a death I’d be happy with so I could wish us back together again?”

“I didn’t quite see things happening this way,” admits Nobunaga, standing on her toes to try and level herself with Okita. “But you’re not going to hear me complaining. You did it, Okita.”

Nobunaga is so close now that Okita sees every minute change in her expression, the little movements of her eyes as she stares at Okita’s face, every bit both the naive Oda successor that had first proclaimed she would bring them to this moment as the Nobunaga kneeling in Honnouji, having accepted what was to come. But here’s something new, something Okita has only caught glimpses of- the playful curve of her lips, the settling of her fingers against the back of Okita’s neck, Nobunaga no longer bound by the limits of time and fickle dreams.

Okita sinks into the kiss when it comes, holds Nobunaga steady against her, tilts her head down as the soles of Nobunaga’s boots leave the ground. No longer does Okita have to worry about aggravating her illness; she matches Nobunaga’s fervor, feels Nobunaga’s gleeful grin against her lips. For once, it’s Nobunaga who yields, her legs giving out and bringing Okita down on top of her, their mingled laughter ringing out across wide nothingness.

When there’s nothing but breathless silence between them, Nobunaga asks, “How long do we have?”

“Until one of us is summoned.” Okita nuzzles the side of Nobunaga’s neck, immerses herself in that smell of freshly fallen ash and gunpowder that she’d never thought she would find herself missing. “But aside from that, forever.”

“That’s all I could need.” Nobunaga tugs on Okita’s shoulder and is met with playful resistance, rare amusement shining in Okita’s eyes. “What?”

“Is that really all?”

Nobunaga shakes her head, eyes narrowing slightly, reaching up with both hands to run her thumbs over Okita’s cheeks. “Kiss me again,” she says, a hint of the Demon King peeking through her confident smirk.

Okita does, hands wound in the hems of Nobunaga’s coat, uniting them both in body and thought- for all those times, for all their kisses, they have never wanted more than in this moment.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes again to Renee, Wesakechak, WiredLain, and SighofLethe for helping me with this from start to finish. 
> 
> (I heard you like time fuckery in your fanfic so you know what's better than one time fuckery, two timefuckeries!)


End file.
